


New Recruit

by MarlaShepard



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Archdemons (Dragon Age), Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Eluvians (Dragon Age), Fade Dreams, Fade Spirits, Fifth Blight (Dragon Age), Gen, M/M, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Fade, Vallaslin (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarlaShepard/pseuds/MarlaShepard
Summary: Hellan woke up from a nightmare. In it, he was a Grey Warden in the middle of a Blight. Tamlen was gone, and he was alone and far away from his clan... Well, no, not really alone, but—there were a bunch of shem there, helping him? And a witch woman wanted him to impregnate her, for some reason?Hellan knew little of the Fade, but from the dreams he had, it was obviously nonsense!Still, a Grey Warden? Hellan had no idea where this notion came from — he barely even heard of the order.Tamlen would get a kick out of this, though. Hellan sat up in his bed, wanting to go and find his lover before he forgot the stupid dream, when he realised there was someone else in the room.“Fear not, lethallin, I am merely here to speak with you.”
Relationships: Male Mahariel/Tamlen (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	New Recruit

**Author's Note:**

> Hellan was accidentally created as a City Elf Origin instead of Dalish, but a friend helped me transplant his face to the character origin I wanted to play, but it meant his face tattoo was not a vallaslin, but just one of the city elf options. The friend jokingly suggested it could be a Fen'Harel vallaslin, which I accepted as headcanon immediately, and turned Hellan into a Dalish rebel edgelord.
> 
> He was a horrible person, and was supposed to be a meta-playthrough, but half-way through, he started growing on me, developed as a person, and he ended up with a proper redemption arc, committing the ultimate sacrifice. And then this idea was born...
> 
> This is the first fic I ever wrote so I'm very excited and a bit worried :')
> 
> As I was writing it, I realised I might want to continue this story - what would happen if the Hero of Ferelden was an Agent of Fen'Harel? I'm curious to see what you think, so leave a comment, share your impressions, let me know if you'd like to read more :)

“There is something... different about him.”  
“I worry whether this is wise, falon. Reconsider if it is reasonable to reach out to the People, again?”  
“I will need agents when the time comes, and he... yes, I think it might just work.”  
“Consider your course carefully, this is my counsel.”  
“I know, my friend. I will not rush this. However, I mean to observe him for a while. His vallaslin, it's wrong…”

The spirit left, and he was alone again. Wisdom worried too much, he thought, as he turned back to observe his newest potential recruit. The Dalish warrior and his companion were about to stumble onto one of the abandoned Eluvians.

***************

Hellan woke up from a nightmare. In it, he was a Grey Warden in the middle of a Blight. Tamlen was gone, and he was alone and far away from his clan... Well, no, not really alone, but—there were a bunch of shem there, helping him? And a witch woman wanted him to impregnate her, for some reason? 

Hellan knew little of the Fade, but from the dreams he had, it was obviously nonsense!

Still, a Grey Warden? Hellan had no idea where this notion came from — he barely even heard of the order.

Tamlen would get a kick out of this, though. Hellan sat up in his bed, wanting to go and find his lover before he forgot the stupid dream, when he realised there was someone else in the room. He tensed up, suddenly acutely aware that his sword was nowhere within reach and he was just in his britches. Shemlen were known to raid Dalish camps for sport. One such raid took his mother and broke his father for good. The pathetic man didn't even have the guts to go after her, choosing instead to just waste away! Some keeper he was. Hellan was too little then, but he swore not to let anything like that happen to his clan again. Yet here he was, unarmed and unable to defend himself. He had to go and have a few too many with Tamlen last night, and now he was naked with an intruder in his aravel, feeling utterly helpless. He was far from helpless, however; if it came to it, he'd fight the intruder to his dying breath. He steeled himself, and leaned forward into the darkness, ready to jump the stranger, when a voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, spoke.

“Fear not, lethallin, I am merely here to speak with you.”

Hellan froze, saying nothing. The voice was unknown to him, but it called him kin. Was this another elf? Not one from his clan, he was sure.

“Your face tattoo…”, the intruder continued, “it is not a vallaslin.”

The night was getting weirder by the second. Hellan wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming, but unlike the insane and unbelievable adventure with the Wardens and the Archdemon, this felt real. This felt dangerously real. There was no Blight, there was certainly no Archdemon, and Tamlen was very much alive — they murdered some stupid wandering shems yesterday, and then celebrated well into the night.

But this, this was just his plain little room, and there was nothing magical about it. The bed underneath him was solid and familiar, and the stranger in the dark corner felt too real for comfort.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he discerned the silhouette of a man in a hood, standing just across from his bed, right next to the door. How did he not hear the bloody door open? How much did he have to drink?  
Whether the man was shemlen or Dalish, he couldn't tell, but if he was elven, he was bigger and taller than average. Perhaps a warrior from a nearby village.

The hood hid the man’s face, as did the scarf wrapped carefully around his neck and raised up over his chin. No warrior hides his face the way this coward does! Hellan was getting enraged now — this intruder had the guts to break into his home in the middle of the night. He wanted to yell at the figure, jump out and attack, but he could not move. Though he couldn't see the stranger's eyes, he felt the man staring him down and, for maybe the first time in his impulsive and brash young life, he thought better of it.

“Your face tattoo. Tell me about it.” The voice came from inside the hood again, calm and soothing, almost friendly, but with a distinct authority in it, that told Hellan this man was used to giving orders. The warrior theory made more and more sense. Still, for a shem warrior, his frame was too slight. And he addressed him in Elven. What would a strange elf from outside his clan be doing here, in his clan, in his aravel, in the middle of the night? Hellan's thoughts raced, which was not his strong suit at the best of days, and the hangover was not helping either. But his fighter instincts served him when his sense did not, and he glared unflinchingly towards the figure, assessing the threat and scanning the situation.

“The Dalish wear the vallaslin to honour the Creators. Yet, you are Dalish, and while your face is marked, the markings are wrong. They honor no Creator.”

Hellan realised he was snarling at the stranger, despite every instinct in him telling him to keep calm and focused. He couldn’t help it, the issue of his bloody vallaslin was so irritating. It was his fucking face and his fucking faith! And his father was a damned failure so why would he care about what his tradition said? The Dalish were his people, yes, but sometimes they were so pathetic!

“Can you explain it? It is of great interest to me and to matters we are here to discuss. Why is your vallaslin not a vallaslin?”  
“What’s it to you?” It was more of a shout than Hellan intended, and he cursed himself for it. The last thing he needed was the clan coming to his rescue. Enough people already thought of him as a disaster. He could — he would — handle this himself.  
“You likely would not believe me if I told you outright, but it is in fact of great interest to me. Still, I do not wish to press a sensitive topic and antagonise you further, falon, so let me—”  
“I’m not your fucking friend!”  
“— ask you this,” the stranger didn’t skip a beat after being interrupted. His composure was infuriating and in stark contrast to Hellan’s temper, which he was rapidly losing. “What reason did you have for giving your mabari such a despised name?”  
“Mabari?!” Hellan’s temper instantly simmered down as the confusion took over. He didn’t have a dog. Maybe he was actually still asleep? Creators, that would be a relief. Demons of the Fade he could deal with, besides, as he wasn’t a mage, they mostly ignored him anyway. Desire demons did sometimes seek him out, but what’s really the harm in those? Still, he couldn’t bet his safety on this being a dream.  
“Ah, I see… I often forget that even mages struggle to recognise this place now.” For a moment, the stranger sounded sad, wistful even, though what he was on about Hellan couldn’t begin to guess. Why would mages be recognising his aravel? “Still, I assure you, you most definitely have a mabari, and one with a highly unusual name, especially considering you come from the Dalish. However, da’len, I’m afraid I approached this poorly. Perhaps we need to start from the beginning. Can you tell me, then, where we are right now?”

Hellan’s head was spinning. When the trespasser asked where they were, it seemed such a stupid question, as they were obviously in his home — a place where he grew up, where he spent his entire life. He knew every inch of the place. But then he started to appraise his surroundings, daring to take his eyes off of the figure for the first time. It was his aravel, alright, but it felt off somehow. The table to the side was smaller than he remembered, or maybe the chair was bigger? Out the corner of his eye, he saw curtains fluttering in the wind, but he didn’t have any curtains. And, sure enough, when he turned his gaze to the windows, they were both bare and closed. The chest with his few possessions was at the foot of his bed where it should be, though, and that’s all that mattered now. He was sick of this! He had enough bad dreams for one night, he didn’t need this shitty reality too. He calculated that he should be able to grab his sword from the chest before the man had a chance to react — his posture was relaxed and he was far enough away, and Hellan was quick — he just needed to act fast. For once, being careless enough to constantly leave his chest unlocked might work to his advantage. He was being threatened, and nobody threatened him. He was done feeling like a caged animal in his own home! Adrenaline flooded him, his muscles tensed and he let his warrior instinct take charge and leapt off the bed—

He was still in his bed, glaring at the intruder, every fibre of his body focused and ready to strike. But he wasn’t moving. Did he move? He heard of people being paralysed with fear, but he wasn’t afraid. He was furious and sick of this weird figure in the far corner of his room talking in riddles. Hellan killed people for less, and he was done putting up with it! Why couldn’t he move? A terrifying thought crossed his mind — this stranger must be a blood mage. He’d heard of mages being able to control people, their bodies, even their thoughts… Panic was creeping into his mind, and he detested it. Panic was for cowards, and cowards died quickly. The man didn’t seem to be doing anything but watching him. Hellan knew little of mages, and cared for their kind even less, but from what little knowledge his father managed to bestow, he was pretty sure no mage was powerful enough to cast any spell without moving or speaking, or, for that matter, without a staff. The figure seemed completely unarmed, and staves weren’t an easy thing to hide.

“We seem to be inside your home,” the man took a step toward the window and glanced out, “on the outskirts of your clan’s camp.” Hellan frowned, and then saw his chance to act. He reached for the chest while the intruder seemed distracted, but wasn’t able to reach it. He took a risk and looked away from the figure to see his hand well inside the lid, but the lid was closed. His hand went right through it and it all just felt like air… The chest was empty. The stranger must have taken his weapons! He stared at his wrist, where his hand disappeared into what should have been a very solid wooden chest, and the shock and the surprise were slowly giving way to a thought. Stupid!

“This isn’t real.”

“That’s a matter of debate… probably best pondered when you’re awake. A fascinating topic, to be sure, but ultimately inconsequential for our business here. Real or not, it is a place where we can speak freely. So, will you answer my questions now?”

Hellan looked to the window, but there was nothing there. No man, no window, there was no fucking wall. Damn it. He hated the Fade! He was looking straight onto the little clearing in the woods where his clan had set up camp, but it was empty and strangely transparent. Hellan was no mage, but now that he knew what he was looking at, he could see how wrong it all was, how fluid and changing. It made him uneasy. When he simply dreamt unaware, the dreams were a lot more solid, but being aware in the Fade was disorienting. He was sitting on the grass now, in the middle of an empty clearing, his aravel nowhere near in sight. He was fully dressed (or, more likely, completely naked, but in imaginary Fade clothes), and the ground beneath him felt firm enough, if you didn’t focus too hard on it. Hellan tried his best not to, lest he fall through the illusion.

One thing was clear now, at least — this man was definitely a mage. Nobody else could walk in dreams like this, and even for a mage, that was some feat. He couldn’t help but be impressed, but as the realisation sank in, anger gave way to fear — he was trapped in the Fade with an obviously powerful dreamer mage, with no idea how to get out… Hellan was rarely helpless, but now, here, he started to feel dread creeping in. Why didn’t he pay more attention to his father’s stories? Was there ever anything useful in them? He couldn’t remember. Wasn’t the Fade only a danger to those possessing magic? Questions without answer were rattling in his skull and his head was pounding… The hangover wasn’t helping. Can you even be hungover in the Fade? Enough! Focus!

All this time, the stranger just waited and observed him, sitting cross-legged on the grass. Or so Hellan assumed, as his face was still fully obscured, and though the eerie green light glowing from the air itself made it easier to see than inside the aravel, the man still seemed obscured, shrouded in shadows, an empty hood over impenetrable darkness. He seemed to be appraising him, but without malice, as far as one could tell such things without seeing even a glimpse of the person’s features.

“Are you well?” the voice under the hood finally broke the silence.

“Who are you?” Hellan was slowly regaining his composure. He took pride in the fact that few things could really rattle him. And besides, this was just a dream. Come to think of it, the man probably wasn’t even real, or at least no more real than the Archdemon he’d just fought off in the previous nightmare. Hellan silently swore to take it a bit easier on the drink from now on (as he did many times before, but this time he meant it). He really wasn’t enjoying this. “What do you want?”

“Who I am is certainly a fascinating tale,” the sudden smugness was palpable,“ and perhaps you might just be the kind of man to believe it.” The man seemed to be enjoying a personal joke. Hellan could almost imagine a self-satisfied grin on the faceless figure. “However, before I regale you with facts and fiction, we must first ascertain whether you are worth my time. Will you humour me and answer my questions?”

Hellan was not a patient man at the best of times, and the smug bastard was truly getting under his skin. Still, he didn’t become a famous and feared warrior — was he one? He never left his little clan… did he? — without knowing how to judge a situation, and this one was yet unclear. While he did usually attack first and ask questions later, if ever, he never did so unless he was sure it was a fight he could win. And he knew nothing of this opponent, not even whether he was even there.

“Ask, if you must!” He didn’t even try to hide the hostility in his voice. Hellan’s rage often discouraged even the most stubborn of opponents. Pissed-off berserkers were a force to be reckoned with — when did he learn to be a berserker, again?

“Tell me of your vallaslin, then.” The stranger was back to his calm and polite ways. His tone was almost conversational, as if they were old friends just catching up. Hellan couldn’t decide which was worse — the smugness or this condescending approach.

“What of it? It’s blood writing to honor the Creators. Surely if you know its name, you know what it is.”

“Indeed. However, yours is…” the man paused, seemingly in an effort to choose his next word carefully, but then came back with: “wrong.” Surely, if you’re trying to pick your words to avoid offending, you don’t tell a Dalish his traditional markings are wrong. Of course, Hellan knew what the man was referring to, but that didn’t stop him from feeling insulted. What right did this stranger have to pretend to know anything about his culture and history? Yeah, his markings were different, but what would this man know about it?

“Please, do not take offence.” The long pause must have made the man rethink his words. Hellan felt that he was regaining control of the situation — his glowering silence seemed to make the intruder uncomfortable. “I simply observed these—” a gloved hand casually waved in the direction of Hellan’s face, “do not seem to honor any specific Creator of the Elvhen pantheon.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought: “Which blood markings supposedly do.”

“What’s your question?” Hellan interrupted before he could carry on. He didn’t appreciate this strange man belittling his traditions. Supposedly my ass. Sure, Hellan had his little rebellions against the traditions of his clan, but it was his bloody culture to challenge if he so chose — outsiders had no such right!

“My question is, how did you come to choose the name for your mabari?”

“Again with the fucking dog?” Hellan was getting annoyed, again. Something was off; he was certain he didn’t have a dog. His clan kept halla, but keeping pets was a shemlen habit. Fereldans loved their mabari. If he were honest, though, he sometimes thought that having a mabari would be fun — they could hunt together and attack wandering shems together. The look on a human’s face when an elf would sic one of their own mabari on them was priceless — or, would be priceless, he guessed. Come to think of it, he did have a mabari in the Grey Warden dream. Was this asshole watching him in the Fade all this time? What was the dog’s name again?

“Fen’Harel.”

“What?” Hellan was taken aback at the curse that seemed to come out of nowhere. The man said it so matter-of-factly, but it made no sense. What did the Dread Wolf have to do with anything?

“Your mabari’s name is Fen’Harel.”

That was… true. Or, rather, it was true in the dream. Something unpleasant was creeping into Hellan’s consciousness, but he pushed the thought away. How did he know about Wardens again?

“Why?”

“Why what?” Hellan snapped again. The unpleasant feeling grew, refusing to go away. What if… if this was a dream, then… 

He snapped out of his dawning realisation when the man suddenly stood up — or materialised in an upright position. Hellan didn’t see him move, but he must have, as he was standing now. He made for an imposing figure, towering over him cloaked in darkness, as if whatever the Fade was made of was condensing around him, obscuring him. For all his muscular build, Hellan felt small. What manner of magic did this being wield? Hellan realised he was struggling to think of the presence as a man, elven or otherwise. He tensed, ready for an attack, though unsure how he would defend himself in this unfamiliar world, from this unfamiliar foe… But the entity turned away, hands neatly clasped behind his back, and started to speak.

“We are running out of time, and it’s starting to seem I am wasting mine. So let me get to the point. Perhaps it was unwise to approach you like this. Sometimes I forget how strange this must seem to your people. A more direct approach might be in order, then.” He suddenly turned to face Hellan, or perhaps he was looking at him all along. It was impossible to tell, and Hellan wasn’t sure if it was just the Fade being odd, or if the bastard was doing it on purpose. His head still hurt, and the uneasy realisation was still lurking in the corner of his mind, and all of this was turning out to be more than he could handle. Instead of dwelling on it, he just gave up and listened. Perhaps the stranger would clear things up, or, perhaps, at least take his mind off of the idea that the Wardens… that Tamlen… No! Focus!

“You are to battle an Archdemon tomorrow,” the man said, as if that was the most ordinary sentence in the world. Hellan’s mind reeled, wouldn’t hear it, refused to let it sink in — “and are likely to perish in the attempt.” 

“I have come to tell you this does not need to be. I offer a way out.” He’d heard this before.

The witch… Morrigan said this yesterday. After the Landsmeet… Where Alistair was made king and Loghain died at Hellan’s hand. 

Suddenly, the dreadful reality snapped into focus.

It was all real. He was a Grey Warden. He became a Grey Warden when Tamlen… when he let Tamlen down. In the real world, he was in bed in Redcliffe castle, the night before he was to lead a fight against the Blight to Denerim. And he was going to die.

A part of him wanted to cling to the vain hope that Riordan would make the fatal blow, the ultimate sacrifice, but something other, something dark and cruel inside him told him that it’s his fate, his curse to die for this cause that was never even his. Since that day in the cave, a part of him knew he never should have lived, didn’t deserve to live. Tamlen’s death… Tamlen’s fate worse than death… Zevran told him he wanted to die when he took the contract on his life, and Hellan understood the feeling well.

Zevran. His mind clung to the name, anchoring itself. Hellan involuntarily reached for his pouch holding the earring Zev gave him, but his fingers curled around thin air. Damn the Fade, not letting him find anything solid to hold onto. The thought of losing— of leaving Zevran— pained him, but it was for the best. Zevran deserved better than him.

A sharp exhale turned his attention back to the figure in front of him. The man seemed to be losing patience, one hand pinching where the bridge of his nose probably was. For the first time during their encounter, Hellan felt he was looking at a person; powerful mage or not, this was just a man. And he looked troubled. No, irritated. How long has the stranger been waiting for him to get a grip? To his dismay, Hellan felt embarrassed, and, worse yet, reluctantly grateful to the stranger for giving him the time. If time even passed in the Fade.

“Would you care to hear my proposal?”

Hellan suddenly remembered that they were talking about the Archdemon. Why did this person care? And what in the Void was he about to suggest? Before he could stop to think he heard himself snap at the man “I’m not making any Old God babies!”

He didn’t even regret his outburst, he realised. The Blight, the Archdemon he could face, but Hellan was done with crazy mages and their insane ideas. 

The man stood silent. Hellan imagined a shocked expression on the suddenly perfectly still figure, and it gave him some small satisfaction to realise that the other man was confused now, for a change. He stayed silent for so long Hellan started to wonder whether he was thinking, or if the illusion finally broke down. Will he be stuck forever in this timeless limbo, frozen with a statue of a shadow?

“Hm. Those would be… best avoided, I agree.” Finally, the shadow spoke again, slowly coming back to his train of thought. “I admit, I am unsure where this idea came from to begin with, but it sounds like a bad one, indeed. If this is an offer you were extended in order to avoid your premature demise, you were wise to refuse it.”

It was Hellan’s turn to be confused again. For what he was told was an unavoidable sacrifice, there seemed to be too many loopholes when it came to killing Archdemons.

“What I offer is a way out, without dying, or.. khm… offspring.” The stranger seemed all too uncomfortable with this line of discussion, and Hellan found himself enjoying this shift in their dynamic. It was good to know this intruder didn’t know everything, and could, in fact, be rattled.

“Why do you even care?” he growled, wanting to add on the pressure while the man was off balance.

“You are quite impatient, lethallin, aren’t you?” The figure sounded suddenly sad, almost wistful. “Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight. You remind me of… another young elf who was certain he knew everything, too.” Turning his face away from Hellan (a pointless gesture as Hellan couldn’t see it anyway. Did this apparition, or whatever it was, even have a face?), he continued.

“My reasons shall remain my own for now, but I will offer this: there is another path in front of you, and I would see you walk it. You could have the opportunity to do much more. Ending the Blight could just be the beginning. A hero who killed the Archdemon could achieve more alive than dead. After such a victory, with your glory and influence over the new king, you could be a powerful man, and use that power to improve the lives of many. You need not die; you could atone for your mistakes in a different way.”

“What do you know of my mistakes?!” Hellan hated how much the last sentence got to him. The man seemed to know more about him than even Hellan was willing to admit to himself. 

“Not as much as I am sure my cryptic manner suggests. I just know regret when I see it. I have… made mistakes, too.”

“And you just want to help me out of the goodness of your heart? Nothing is free!”

“Indeed.” there was that imaginary grin again. “But that is a discussion for another time.”

“So you plan to intrude on my life again?”

“For me to intrude on your life, you have to keep living, don’t you?”

Hellan scowled. The stranger seemed to enjoy these mind games a little too much for his taste. This was his life — and his death — they were talking about.

“Before you snap at me again, my young friend,” the figure raised his hand as if to stop him — or soothe him — Hellan wasn’t sure; “let me say this: the choice is yours, I am simply giving you the opportunity to have a choice.” The raised hand lowered, and extended to Hellan. A glint caught his eye — the man was holding something, the eerie green glow of the Fade refracting on its smooth sharp surface. Rage and panic flooded him — were all these riddles just torture before he was killed?

“Should you wish to continue living, you must simply make sure to strike the final blow with this.” The man didn’t move, didn’t make any attempt to attack. He just stood there with what, upon closer inspection, looked like a broken piece of glass.

“Think about it when you wake up, and should you live past tomorrow, we will speak again.”

Hellan woke with a start. He was in his bed at Redcliffe castle, and it was dawning outside. He hated the Fade. As if it wasn’t enough that he had to end the Blight today, no matter the cost, he’d spent his final night tortured by imaginary bastards in his dreams.

His mabari, Fen’Harel, looked up at him from the foot of the bed inquisitively. Hellan turned to look at the man sleeping soundly next him, and that’s when he saw it.

The shard was placed neatly on the bed, right between him and Zevran.

“Mi amor, lie back down, there is still time before we must go save the world.” A sleepy voice and a hand reaching out to pull him into an embrace snapped Hellan out of his stupor.

He quickly grabbed the shard and let himself be dragged down into his lover’s arms. Turning on his side, he stared at the glass in his hands. It looked like a mirror, but it seemed alive, liquid. It couldn’t— Creators, who even knew what could and couldn’t be at this point! Hellan has seen this glass before, in the cave that started all this.

As Zevran behind him hummed softly, Hellan reached a decision. Fuck it, why not. This started it, only fitting it would end it as well. And if it worked, if he could stay with Zev, perhaps… He placed the piece of a broken Eluvian on his nightstand carefully, and took his lover’s hand in his. Zevran was wearing the ring he gave him. And nothing else. Hellan smiled to himself. He was right, there was still time. At least a little, and perhaps — Hellan caught himself hoping the figure from the Fade spoke the truth — a lifetime.


End file.
